


Things We Cannot See

by notalone91



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Ghosts, Haunted Houses, Horror, Inspired by The Haunting of Hill House, M/M, Psychological Horror, Supernatural Elements, Thriller, my usual m.o. is Everybody Lives and THIS WILL NOT BE THE CASE THIS TIME
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25141369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalone91/pseuds/notalone91
Summary: No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Neibolt House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for a hundred years and might stand for a hundred more.---Eddie Kaspbrak and Richie Tozier have plans.  Big plans.  All they have to do is flip the house on Neibolt street and they'll be well on their way.  But how do their plans stack up against that of the house?
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	Things We Cannot See

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by The Haunting Of Hill House on Netflix.

No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Neibolt House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for a hundred years and might stand for a hundred more. 

Edward Kaspbrak- or Eddie, Eds, Eduardo, Dear Edwina, or Spaghetti as his husband called him- stood before the ramshackle old Victorian they'd bought for a song to flip and finally start their family. He choked down the ill-feeling he fought off every time he got one of his inklings. They weren't uncommon. His therapist insisted they were nothing, he just had a hairpin trigger. Anxiety like his usually came with it. 

Except he didn't have anxiety. 

Eddie was sensitive. Not in the way his mother threw the word around. Eddie was sensitive like his father was sensitive. Like his father’s father and his father before him. When he was no more than 8, Frank Kaspbrak had pulled him into his lap after a nightmare and told him, in as much detail as he could allow himself, about his gift. He could see glimpses of it in Eddie. Kids can be creepy, that much is true, but there were too many accuracies to what his little creeper said. His little boy's nightmares were crystal clear. He could feel how real they were for him. "It passes between the men in our family," he'd whisper. "We can feel things other people can't. See things." Eddie would look at him in wide-eyed wonderment, still bleary from his tears. He could deal with the nightmares if there was a reason. A cause. Frank would press a kiss to his temple and rock him back to sleep, silently praying to whatever deity would hear him that this time would be different. This time would be gentle. If his baby boy had to deal with this, he could only hope it would be better than it had been for him.

The years passed and so, too, did Frank. 

Rushed out of the house by his mother in her blood-soaked nightgown in the middle of a stormy June night, both sobbing. All his life, Eddie would never look at a violet the same way again. Eddie may have been hardly 10 at the time, but he knew one thing, his father, his rock, was gone. Myra Kaspbrak was deemed unfit almost immediately, despite being exonerated of any connection with Frank's tragic death. It was ruled a suicide and that may well have been true, but the courts ruled that Eddie would go to live with his Godparents, the Denbroughs, and their two sons, Bill and Georgie in a town called Derry, Maine. 

It was there that he met Bill's best friends, Stan, Ben, Mike, Bev, and Richie. Sweet Richie who practically lived at the Denbrough's house, too. He was instantly Eddie's favorite. 

He grew to love them all, sure, but Richie would always be the stand-out.

So much so, in fact, that one balmy summer’s night, palms sweaty as they lay in the field behind Mike’s house, the grass itching at the backs of their legs, he didn’t even think twice when Richie leaned over and kissed him. Their friends had hooted and hollered, stunned that they had finally made their move. Somehow, despite being the least shocking coupling in their group, they were somehow the last to realize it.

Even as the Losers, as they called themselves, drifted apart through the years, Eddie and Richie were the only ones left in Derry by the time they graduated college, the whole time hand in hand. They rented the shitty little apartment over Keene’s pharmacy, making Eddie’s commute to work a whopping 30 seconds, and Richie’s to the movie theatre an exhausting and defeating whole minute to the movie theatre down the block. As a matter of fact, they were married, in as much of a capacity as they could be, in Derry by Mike’s grandfather in October of 1998. Recent events being what they were, they were terrified. After a long conversation about hate and fear and love and the world at large, they decided, once and for all, that they were it for each other. They knew that, if anyone in town would be willing to do it for them, it would be Mr. Hanlon. A Preacher’s son and parental figure was as good as they could ever have hoped. 

The three men stood in the very same backfield where the boys had shared their first kiss and Richie and Eddie exchanged their vows and sealed their love anew. They were given a basket and told not to peek until they got back home, but to enjoy it together then. On a card in shaky but practiced cursive, each item was listed and explained. Two mason jars, one of fresh yogurt and one of fresh honey, “For a healthy lifetime together, swirled with sweetness.” A bag of five Jordan almonds, “To remind you that that love makes the most bitter tolerable, that you may no longer be divided, and each a wish for your marriage: happiness, health, prosperity, family, a long life together.” A loaf of intricately braided fresh bread, “For a bond strengthened by love entwined.” A small mound of goat cheese coated in sage, rosemary, and thyme, “to keep you sharp, wise, patience, and perseverent.” Last, a bottle of deep cherry wine infused with sprigs of lavender, “that your Love may grant you Paradise.” At the bottom of the card, after his heartfelt wishes, a small postscript insisted, “Michael would have loved to have been here.” 

Somehow, just two years later, they managed to scrape together enough money to buy a house on the outskirts of town. The house on Neibolt Street was old. It had been in shambles for as long as either could remember. Still, thanks to a foreclosure auction and some quick thinking on Richie’s part, it was theirs. They looked at the floor plans, a thousand or so episodes of This Old House, and each other, resolved to fix it up and flip it so they could finally move to California and be done with Derry once and for all. 

Now, with the keys in hand, Eddie stared up at the imposing structure, terrified. For a house covered in wild sunflowers, he’d have expected to have a sunnier feeling. Instead, he couldn’t shake a familiar foreboding.

The sensitivity had dulled over time, so he’d told himself, but sometimes, like just then, he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt worse. 

Richie snuck up behind him and snaked an arm around his waist. “Want me to carry you over the threshold, babe?” His voice was low and thick, mouth dangerously close to Eddie’s ear. 

This time, the shiver wasn’t a bad feeling, but a very, very good one. Still, Eddie turned him down flat, face still somber. “No. This isn’t our home,” he said, taking Richie’s hand in his and slowly heading to the creaky old steps. “When we sell this old dump and get our own, you can carry me over that one,” he laughed.

Still, Richie was not dissuaded by his insistence. “Eh, you’re little enough,” he insisted, lifting him up into a fireman’s carry and smacking his ass. “I don’t think doing it twice’ll kill me,” he groaned, giving the impression very much of the opposite, immediately earning himself a scrambling lecture about hernias and sciatica and pulled muscles and delayed reactions.

Richie laughed loud enough to drown out Eddie’s protests. The smaller man’s feet flailed the whole time, desperate to be put down. He didn’t hate the action, but only when it was Richie. Richie consistently knocked him off his feet anyway, so why should now be any different. 

Still, something didn’t feel right. It was almost like he could feel the old house watching him.

He didn’t want the house on Neibolt Street to ever feel like home, and Richie insisting on these homemaking rituals didn’t help any. 

**Author's Note:**

> This story WILL have elements of horror and suspense and all of the bells and whistles. But remember, "Nobody who dies here ever _really_ dies."


End file.
